Never Enough
by Thrice Written
Summary: Arthur has wanted Alfred for so long, but with the "golden boy" far out of his league, there's no chance of them ever being together. At least, that's what Arthur thinks - until Alfred comes to him for some casual sex. School AU.
1. Never Enough

**Never Enough**

UK x US

**R18**

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**Author's Notes**:

Not a lot for me to say this time. Please read and review, and let me know if you want me to keep writing in this AU. Because seriously, I'm in love with Alfred here.

**Warnings:** kind of a one-sided "relationship"? If you can even call it that?

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

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**1. Never Enough**

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After Arthur fucked Alfred Jones in the abandoned playground in the woods behind their school, he realized that there is something worse than wanting. It's wanting _more_.

Because now, a few days later, there's nothing he can do but go back to his old routine — mindlessly sitting his way through class after class, taking notes that don't make sense, writing poems in the margins of his notebook, and silently yearning for Alfred at a distance. All while the "golden boy" busies himself with disrupting class and chatting and laughing and joking around with his equally popular friends.

It's the fishbowl effect. Arthur is on the outside, looking in, held off by a barrier of clear glass and left longing for something he's had but can't, for the love of God, keep.

He tried. Yes, he'll admit that it was a rather pathetic attempt, but he did _try_. After they'd readjusted their clothing and were going through the awkward red-in-the-face-and-trying-not-to-make-eye-contact phase (at least, _Arthur_ was; Alfred didn't seem like he cared, which was probably the first clue that Arthur was in for disappointment and rejection), Arthur twisted his hands together and said timidly, "Um . . . uh . . . will you . . . go out with me?"

"What . . . ? You mean, like — _date_?" Alfred fixed his cool blue gaze on Arthur, the cigarette he'd lit glowing between his fingers, and the ground threatened to dissolve under Arthur's feet.

"Y-yes." _As boyfriends, _Arthur wanted to add, but his tongue wasn't working quite right.

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "You want us to be _legit_ or something?"

He said it like it was the most childish thing he'd ever heard. Arthur had never wanted to die of embarrassment more than he did at that moment. He switched from kneading his fingers to kneading the hem of his shirt, his voice and his temporary courage taken away by the scorn in Alfred's tone.

Alfred leaned back — he's one of those boys who can't simply _sit_; he has to slouch or sprawl or drape his limbs over every possible surface like a starfish before he's satisfied — and slid down lower and lower, until the swing he'd parked his butt on was at the small of his back and he was laying practically parallel to the ground, long, denim-clad legs stretched out and heels digging into the sand. He stared up at the sky through the forest foliage. The rusty chains on the swing creaked, and Arthur almost expected them to snap and drop Alfred flat on his spine, but they didn't.

"Not interested." Alfred paused. "Sorry," he added, like the word was meant to be a consolation prize instead of an apology. He took another drag on his cigarette, flicked it away, and stood up (even though he's a grade below Arthur, his muscular form towers a good four inches over Arthur's more slender one. With the age difference in the way, the only reason Arthur knows him at all is that Alfred's smart enough to be in some of his senior-level classes). "Thanks for the quick fix. I'll see you around, Kirkland."

Then he walked off the playground with that natural half-saunter that had all the girls falling for him, and Arthur was left standing next to the slide at a loss for what to do.

It doesn't matter that no one else knows about what they did, because in his head, Arthur can still hear Alfred's words.

_Not interested. . . . Sorry. . . . Quick fix._

He was turned down with all the ceremony of the runt of the pack being rejected by the alpha, and his first time having sex — which happened to be with the boy he's had a crush on since the beginning of the school year — was labeled as a _quick fix_. And they never even kissed. It makes Arthur want to crawl into a hole and cry.

Then again . . . it's his own fault for saying "yes" in the first place. When Alfred appeared on the playground that afternoon, spotted Arthur, and casually asked if he was interested, Arthur should have declined. He should have put away his textbook (the playground is a nice, quiet place for doing homework — or used to be, anyway, before it became haunted with the ghost of their encounter), packed his bag, and left.

But he didn't. He couldn't. Because it was Alfred.

What drew Alfred to the playground that time is still a mystery to Arthur — a mystery that matters less and less. It's what they did _after _Alfred's arrival that has Arthur's gut twisted into a knot and his head in a tailspin and his body and heart aching miserably for _more_.

It's a proven fact that chances are, once you've had sex for the first time, you'll start to masturbate more frequently. That's what happens to Arthur. Since that afternoon with Alfred a couple of days ago, he's touched himself at least half a dozen times, making himself come to the memory of Alfred's skin, Alfred's sweat, Alfred's tightness. He does it before bed, once he gets home from school, and even in the morning upon waking. And it makes him feel repressed and utterly pathetic. He never used to do it so often — at most, once every couple of days. His usual agenda was once a week. Now he's unbearably horny all the time, and his hand just isn't _enough_. It probably won't ever be enough again. For some reason, the thought terrifies Arthur.

Alfred's changed him in more ways than Arthur understands. More ways than he _wants_. The loose threads that Alfred left him with are choking Arthur; he needs some kind of closure (Alfred's rejection doesn't count), or he'll never have any peace from either his body or his mind. So instead of walking home after school ends, which is what he's supposed to do, Arthur returns to the playground. He sits down on a swing and cracks open his English textbook to study, his heartbeat loud and wild and overwhelming in his ears even as the rest of the world is silent.

Twenty minutes later, something flies into his vision and lands on the open page on his lap. It's a sealed condom packet, gleaming a dull, metallic silver in the sunlight filtering through the trees. Arthur's heart catches in his throat.

"Hey."

Arthur looks up, blinking rapidly.

Alfred stands right before him, barely two feet away, resplendent in a gray T-shirt and tight jeans and his usual tinted glasses. He's near enough to touch, and he's still wearing that uninterested, nonchalant expression. His gaze feels like it's burning a path straight into Arthur's core.

"You want to go again?"

And for the life of him, Arthur still can't say no.


	2. Falling For You

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**2. Falling For You**

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_Hey, have you heard? They're saying —_

_ What? What're they saying?_

_ Oh my God, can you believe it? He's — oh my God, I never knew —_

_ Dude, it's so obvious —_

Arthur hunches over, trying to fade into the row of gray lockers on his right. But he still feels exposed . . . he always feels exposed nowadays. Every word in the conversation taking place six feet away is a bullet, trying to pierce its way through his eardrums and into his skull.

_He's a fag? Seriously? How'd you find out?_

_ Duh! Have you seen the way he looks at Jones?_

_ Uh, no, and I don't want to. Ew —_

_ I can't believe he's —_

Thankfully, the teacher arrives with his arms full of paper-stuffed folders and unlocks the classroom door. The waiting cluster, which is clogging up half of the hallway, begins to file inside. Arthur shrinks to the back, and tries to get to his seat as discreetly as he can once he's cleared the door. However, the group that's whispering (mainly average, normal-looking students, with a few modest preps thrown into the mix) is still within earshot; a brief hush falls over them as they glance in Arthur's direction. Secret smiles — _look, it's him! The fag! _— are exchanged. Then they keep chattering amongst themselves, the subject of their gossip obvious in the way they all have a shoulder deliberately turned away from Arthur.

They're not being malicious. They're not really even being judgmental. To them, Arthur Kirkland is not a human being with feelings and a life outside of his sexuality — he's a concept, a topic to be explored and dissected. He's Gay, with a capital G.

After the class has settled down, the teacher begins the lesson. Arthur's skin continues to prickle unpleasantly, but now that everyone is quiet, he's able to push what he'd heard out of his head (for the time being). He lowers his eyes down to his notebook. Then, biting his lip, he slides them to his left.

Through his eyelashes, he sees Alfred slouching at his desk by the window five rows down, gnawing on the raw end of a pencil and looking terminally bored. His reading glasses, the non-tinted ones, are hooked into the front of his shirt collar — which, Arthur has come to recognize, is a sign that he's not paying attention to the class at all. When he _does_ pay attention, the glasses are perched on the bridge of his nose, fulfilling their purpose and giving Alfred the hot, studious jock look. It's a sight that Arthur's seen less than a dozen times over the course of the school year; just thinking about it makes him feel slightly wistful.

It doesn't take long for both his mind and his gaze to stray permanently away from the lesson. Arthur's a bit of a dreamer, and that's part of the reason, but the blame lies mostly on the distraction across the room.

Alfred is wearing jeans, like usual. They're tight, though not tight enough to qualify as the notorious "skinny jeans," and they're a nice shade of stonewashed blue. The knees are worn. No belt; Alfred seems to have a thing against them. When he lifts his arm up, his shirt rides up to reveal the inch of tan hip above the waistband of his plaid boxers (which are peeking out over the tops of the jeans, because Alfred favors the sloppy, crotch-halfway-down-the-thighs look that most of the guys adopt in junior year. Conveniently, like all teen males, he's also deaf to the adults' constant cry of "Pull up your pants!").

The good thing about staring at Alfred all class is fairly obvious: he's eye-candy, as the general female population likes to put it. The bad thing is that Arthur is reminded, once again, of his rejection — in addition to the two times they had sex on the playground. Unrepressed, the memories stir and roil in Arthur's gut, a confused and miserable mess that nonetheless appeals to his baser instincts.

His hand twitches in his lap. Arthur quickly looks away, a tinge of heat rising in his cheeks, and begs in his head, _Please, no, not again, it's already the third time today_. Of course, his body doesn't care about his thoughts or the risk of possible humiliation; his slacks are already growing tighter around the zipper, and there's nothing Arthur can do to stop it.

Feeling absolutely pathetic, he reaches down and, hiding the movement of his hand with his leg, plucks at his inseam to lessen the pressure before subtly adjusting his waistband. Given more room, his "problem" isn't as uncomfortable as it was a few seconds ago, but it's still locked against his pelvis, hard and hot and more than a little bothersome. And now that he's aroused, all he can think of is being inside Alfred, pressing into Alfred's heat, watching Alfred's opening stretch around his girth like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like it's _meant_ to. The feel of Alfred's inner walls, closing around Arthur in a constricting grip that's entirely at odds with his controlled expression; the rhythm, slow at first but picking up pace as Arthur gets closer and closer to the edge without actually tumbling over; the burst of pleasure, so good that it's almost guilt wrapped in gold; the gasping, shuddering, breathless aftermath.

Arthur keeps himself from looking at Alfred again for the rest of the period. His imagination definitely doesn't need any more fuel; it already has too much as it is. When the bell rings, he's out of the room and rushing to his next class as fast as he can, wanting, _needing_ to get away before he makes a fool of himself. He's already had enough potential for mortification to last him the rest of the day.

But even though his head tells him that he doesn't want to be anywhere near Alfred, his libido has different plans. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he's already made the unconscious decision to return to the playground once school's over.

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**A/N:** Okay, so I gave in and wrote another chapter because I'm having way too much fun with this AU. But seriously - I have four other fics that I have to get done, so from now on, I promise to keep working on this story if you guys promise to review. Deal?


	3. Just Out Of Reach

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**3. Just Out Of Reach**

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Arthur slowly picks his way through the woods, fighting the impulse to just drop all sense of composure and sprint. His body, wracked by nerves, is going through the classic symptoms — dry mouth, clammy hands, stuttering heart. He feels cold, even though the season is somewhere between late spring and early summer.

_Get a grip_, he thinks to himself. _You're acting like a virgin._

For a moment, he can't help but smile at the irony. Yes, he concludes, Alfred _has_ changed him — he's given him a dab of experience, a touch of recklessness, a taste of something from the capricious, exotic world beyond Arthur's little bubble of existence. (The only things he hasn't given Arthur are a kiss and legitimate boyfriend status.) But deep down, Arthur realizes that despite it all, he'll always be the same. Sure, he'll keep transitioning away from the loss of his virginity (which is a thing of the past now, even though it's the recent past) with every tryst he has with Alfred, and his body will gradually adjust to the electric thrill of sex, but nothing has truly changed because Arthur is still Arthur and Alfred is still Alfred and they still coexist within the same crystal-glass sphere called high school, brushing sleeves but never really touching.

The awkward, shy virgin. That's what Arthur Kirkland will always be, with or without his questionable acquaintances-with-benefits relationship with Alfred Jones. Another smile tugs at the corner of Arthur's mouth; he suppresses it and, smoothing out his expression as best as he can, walks into the clearing that hosts the old playground.

Then he stops in his tracks — because, unexpectedly, Alfred is already there ahead of him.

He's lounging on the steps that lead up to the slide, arms folded loosely over his stomach, the very picture of waiting. Another cigarette juts from the corner of his mouth, tip glowing orange. When he sees Arthur arrive, he nods in acknowledgement. "Hey."

The sound of his voice sends a spark up Arthur's spine. "Hey," Arthur replies, trying to match his casual tone and failing miserably when the word comes out as a squeak. He clears his throat in a hurry, feeling hot humiliation rising up in his face in record time.

For a few long moments, neither of them says anything else.

Arthur is tempted to sink into the ground again. It's amazing how heavy and oppressive silence can be. His hands grasp the dangling straps of his backpack and hold on tight as he stares down at his feet, face aflame for no real reason, the sound of rushing blood filling his ears.

It's Alfred who finally takes the next step and closes the gap growing between them. He blows his bangs out of his eyes and, pitching the cigarette into the sandbox, says, "I gotta leave in" — a glance at his phone, a flash of sleek black that disappears back into his pocket with quicksilver speed — "fifteen minutes. Make it fast, got it?" His voice, his tone, his poise . . . all so inherently arrogant that anyone who isn't made powerless by his very presence (the way Arthur is) would hit him for it.

The unspoken question bubbles up to Arthur's lips. _Why me? _But it doesn't pop, and Arthur steps closer like willing prey. "Er . . . all right. Do you have . . . ?"

And then he's standing behind Alfred, who is bent over one of the thigh-high platforms that kids used to stand on while they reached for the monkey bars. His backpack lies abandoned near the swings. Arthur's hands are as unsteady as they've ever been, fumbling with his own button and zipper like they belong to a stranger, like he hasn't done this twice already. Alfred is on one elbow; his free hand has pulled his jeans and boxers down to his knees and is now working between his cheeks, spreading his ass, stretching the puckered, pink-rimmed hole into something more welcoming. He doesn't look at Arthur. Arthur tries not to look at him.

Packet opened. Condom rolled on. At least that part goes smoothly. Arthur gives himself a self-conscious little rub, waits for Alfred to pull his fingers away and give him permission, and wonders timidly if they'll ever do it in a position where Alfred will allow him to see his face. He thinks it's hard to reach that level of intimacy on a playground, though . . . especially when there was never any sort of affection between them in the first place. Besides, he's not sure he'll be able to meet Alfred's eyes if they're face-to-face, and he doesn't want to appear as nervous and fidgety and insecure as he feels. His self-respect has taken enough blows over the past few days.

Rare as the sight is and arousing as it should be, he can't bring himself to watch Alfred's hand vulgarly at work. This reality and the one they share at school — they're two jagged puzzle pieces that belong to different sets. They were never meant to fit together.

Can the same be said for him and Alfred?

Arthur focuses on the tightening of Alfred's muscles around him, on the back of his tan neck, along his smooth biceps as he supports himself. Alfred still doesn't look at him, but Arthur knows that his expression is as unaffected as the last time, and the time before that. Yet his body — his body is demanding _more_. He pushes back against Arthur like he needs it, meeting and matching his every movement with cold, rarefied enthusiasm.

Alfred's waist and hips are exposed; Arthur longs to grip him and hold on to him as they do this. But he can't. Somehow, he feels as if he doesn't have the right to. Alfred is too venerated — too jaded — to be touched, even though they're already having sex and touching is supposed to come naturally. So instead, Arthur bites back his desire and fists the edge of Alfred's shirt and feels the burn of Alfred's skin against his knuckles through the cotton. A poor subsitute, but a necessary one.

Later, after they're both done (Arthur's stamina falls just short of Alfred's) and Alfred is kicking wood chips into a pile over the spatters of semen on the ground, Arthur gathers up his gut and forces out some words. Not the ones he truly wants to say, but words that have a little direction nonetheless.

"W-will we keep doing this every day? Here?" he asks.

Alfred glances at him with narrowed eyes, puzzled. "You know a better place?"

Every day it is, then. "I — that's — I mean —" Flushing, Arthur kneads his fingers again. He means to ask, _Why here? Why me? Why?_ That's what he really wants to know. But once again, the inquiries refuse to leave his mouth, sticking behind his teeth like old gum. "No. Never mind. It's . . . everything's fine. The way it is."

"Mm." And the matter is left at that.

Alfred leaves after a brisk goodbye. Arthur wonders when he'll get used to the feeling of being left behind, or if he'll ever get used to it. It occurs to him for the first time that he's already resigned himself to it like Alfred is going to be his and only his, like it's just a minor inconvenience in the face of forever. He's not sure whether it's stupid hopefulness or indulgent delusion on his part.

_Who am I trying to fool?_ Arthur thinks glumly. _He's not mine, and never will be._

But at least he's allowed to dream, right?

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**A/N: Yes, I'm still alive. A little slow with the updates (on all my stories, not just this one) because I didn't have much internet access over the summer. Hopefully, once school starts, I'll be able to post chapters more regularly.**

**Also, I apologize for not responding to any comments. ORZ**


	4. Sensitivity

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**4. Sensitivity**

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"You know, you really suck at this," says Alfred matter-of-factly.

Arthur stutters to a stop, hands still curled around the hem of Alfred's shirt, knuckles tentative against his skin. "E-excuse me?"

"I said, you really _suck_ at this." The emphasis is deliberate. Bored.

How in the world is someone supposed to respond to something like that? More importantly — does Alfred mean it as a real insult, or has he had enough of sex? Cheeks bursting into flame, Arthur quickly lets go and pulls out, a bit more hastily and clumsily than he intends to. Alfred grunts as they separate.

"Ow, fuck —" He turns his head to glare at Arthur over his shoulder. He's still bent over and using the playground equipment as support, legs spread at a rather obscene angle. The ring of his asshole is glistening wet, tenderly pink. Awkwardly, Arthur tries to avert his eyes while he backs up, and it turns out to be a bad idea, because his heel catches on a rock and sends him down on his backside with a hard thud that shoots pain through his privates. They bob ridiculously as gravity wins its bid against him.

The yelp that escapes him as he lands is almost as embarrassing as his fall.

Biting his lip, Arthur winces hard. God, it feels like the jolt managed to shove his windpipe right up his throat. Not to mention that he'll probably be picking wooden splinters out of his ass for days, and his tailbone . . . He looks up, meets Alfred's surprised blue eyes, and ducks his head down again in utter humiliation. What must Alfred think of him now? _Arthur Kirkland, who's not only horrible at sex but also an incompetent loser?_

Alfred snorts, and he turns and presses his forehead down onto his forearm. Soon, his whole body is wobbling from his silent chuckles. Arthur watches him, slightly confused. But after Alfred laughs quietly for a few more seconds, he can't help but allow himself a faint smile, too.

The ice seems to have finally broken.

Arthur's not sure how long he sits there with his briefs halfway down his thighs like a fool, but he comes back to his senses when he realizes that Alfred has left his previous spot and is now kneeling next to him. He'd pulled his own pants up — mostly — but he'd left them unbuttoned and unzipped. Arthur stares, then catches himself and blushes a second time.

"Dude." Alfred pauses to snort again. "You're such a klutz."

"I'm sorry, I should have —"

"Chill. It's cool. But I wasn't kidding, you know. You really do suck at screwing." Arthur looks at him, then away, ashamed. "Hey, listen. It's not like you're fucked for life — you just gotta learn to do it right. Get the rubber off and open 'em." Alfred jerks his chin down at the condom still fitted over Arthur's cock. Under his scrutiny, Arthur maneuvers the latex sheath off and, after an indecisive moment, drops it off to the side, where it's out of the way.

Then he hesitates. "Open what?"

"Your wallet — no, seriously, what do you think?" Alfred rolls his eyes. "Come on. Open your legs."

New apprehension flits through Arthur's stomach. "Wh-what?" he chokes out, his voice coming out too high-pitched for his dignity. "Why? What are you going to do?" Instinctively, he draws his knees up, closer to his chest.

"I'm trying to fucking show you how to do it right so you'll stop screwing up."

Arthur glances up at Alfred's impatient expression. Something inside his chest shrinks; he _knows_ he's not ready to lose his virginity like this. Because doing it this way . . . is a much bigger deal. He'll be rearranging his body, putting something where it shouldn't go. He shuts his eyes in an attempt to resist the temptation to just give himself up to Alfred — perfect, conceited, untouchable, willing-to-show-him-how-to-get-it-right Alfred. He really doesn't want to make a mistake that he'll regret. He doesn't want to have his heart trampled on. The only reason Alfred's even showing the remotest amount of interest in him is because of the sex, and since Arthur knows that that's not all that he himself wants, letting Alfred be the one to put it inside him won't end well.

Blowing air out exasperatedly, Alfred reaches into his pocket and brings out the travel-size tube of KY that has become a familiar sight over the past several days. Arthur eyes it warily.

"You can relax, you know," Alfred says nonchalantly, persuasively, his attention on squeezing out a line of jelly onto his free hand. "I'm not planning on sticking my dick in you. Hell, no, I don't go for that shit. No, all I'm gonna do is show you _exactly_ what you're supposed to be hitting when you've got it up my ass. All it takes is a couple of fingers." He holds his up, shiny and moist with lubricant.

Oh. So Alfred isn't aiming for the full monty, after all. At least, not in the way Arthur expected. But . . . this is still too intimate for him. Much as he wants Alfred . . . Arthur swallows. Brings his knees together. "I can't —"

Alfred's phone goes off.

Sighing, obviously annoyed, Alfred tosses the tube of KY into Arthur's lap and slides his phone out with his clean hand. He answers it after a fleeting glance at the ID. "Hey, Kels. What up?" He stands up, wanders to the edge of the playground with his back to Arthur.

_Kels? _Arthur's mind immediately flips through his mental filing cabinet of names. He only comes up with one possible match. _Kelsey Anderson? Senior, blonde, lacrosse team?_ Uneasiness twists in his middle, and he has to fight to keep it from spreading. Of course Alfred hangs out with a lot of girls. A lot of senior girls. He's Alfred, after all — as much as Arthur wishes he can have him to himself, Alfred is and will forever be in high demand. Forever out of his league.

What would Kelsey Anderson say if she knew that Alfred had been having sex with Arthur every day after school for the past week? What would any of Alfred's friends say?

The thought makes Arthur feel vaguely better. He watches Alfred wipe his hand off on a tree trunk and fix up his jeans, and wonders what will happen next time. He may have gotten off the hook today . . . but he has the hunch that now that his poor performance has been acknowledged, the only way Alfred is ever going to sleep with him again is if he makes sure that Arthur knows what he's doing first. The hands-on way. The invasive way.

Arthur's not sure how he feels about that.

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**A/N: Yes, an unusual amount of dialogue, and evidence that Alfred is actually not just a piece of wood. At least, not literally. After rewriting this chapter about three times . . . yeah. I finally know where I'm going with this now, thank God.**

**And I also realized that I set this story right before Arthur's prom and graduation. Hmm, wonder what I could do with that?**


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